by Sue Harrison
As she listened, Chagak wove baskets, but her fingers seemed slow, as if the waiting had aged her; and the baskets were misshapen, so that the Whale Hunter women looked at them slyly from the corners of their eyes, and Chagak was ashamed of her clumsiness. Their cave was wide and shallow. It cut into the back side of the ridge so anyone coming from the village would see only the ridge and not the cave. It was deep enough to be a shelter from the wind, but it dripped water from its high vaulted roof, and hard, spiny deposits had built up on the floor.
The first day the women had chipped at the deposits with hand axes and smoothed out the floor as much as they could. Crooked Nose, Blue Shell, Little Duck and Chagak chose a section for themselves near the back of the cave. A short distance from the ridge, Crooked Nose had found several stunted willows and, using the supple branches as supports, had hung sea lion skins over their sleeping area so water would not drip on them in the night. Shuganan had given Chagak one of his hunter’s lamps. It held only three or four wicks and a puddle of oil, but it was enough to light their small corner and give some heat.
They had laid grass mats over the floor, one layer over another, and had spread sealskins over them, so their bedding stretched over the entire area. And Chagak had laughed, telling the others that she had never worked while in bed, weaving and sewing as she squatted in her sleeping place.
But now, at the end of the second day, Chagak wanted only to know how the men were, to see Shuganan, Kayugh and Big Teeth and even Gray Bird. And she wished she were a man so she could fight beside them.
Many Whales’ son came as they had told him, quietly, creeping into the village like a shadow, crawling into Many Whales’ ulaq. Shuganan, Many Whales and Kayugh squatted near an oil lamp, each man working on his weapons, and they jumped when the boy spoke.
“They come,” he said. And Kayugh heard fear in the words.
“How many?” Many Whales asked.
“Twenty ikyan, maybe more,” the boy said, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.
“Do the men on the ridges know?” Many Whales asked.
“The ones on this side.”
“And those in the other ulas?” Shuganan asked.
“No. I came to you first.”
“As you should,” Many Whales said.
“But you must warn the others.”
Kayugh looked at the boy, at the fine otter fur of his parka, at the new spear in his hands. His thoughts went briefly to Amgigh, and a sudden fear pressed into his chest that he would not see Amgigh grown to this age, the age of boy almost a man.
“You go to the west cliff and tell them,” Kayugh said. “I will go to the other ulas.”
They left together, and Shuganan called after Kayugh, “Be careful. Do not let them see you.”
The boy skirted the back of the village, and Kayugh crawled to the top of the first ulaq. He slipped in through the roof hole, calling out his name before entering.
When he had warned the men in the village, he returned to Many Whales’ ulaq. He called down that he would stay at the top of the roof hole and watch the beach.
For a time there was nothing. The fog had moved in from the sea, softening the edges of rocks and dimming the late light of the sun. Wisps settled between the ulas, and the whiteness crept up toward Kayugh. Finally he saw movement on the beach—men dragging ikyan ashore.
Though fog always carries sound well, Kayugh heard no voices and, watching the men through the haze, it seemed they moved more slowly than they should, carefully, quietly, so that Kayugh began to wonder if he was in some dream.
But he climbed back into the ulaq and called to the others, “They are on the beach.”
Shuganan pushed himself to his feet and picked up his harpoon.
One more time Kayugh tried to talk to the old man. “We need you to pray for us,” Kayugh said. “Let me take you to the cliffs. You can pray there as well as here.”
“If I go to the cliffs,” Shuganan said, tightening his crooked fingers around the shaft of his weapon, “I will not be able to come down with the men and fight. Here, I will be ready to help. I am old, but I still hunt.”
“Be careful, Grandfather,” Kayugh said, honoring the man with the title. “Chagak needs you.”
Shuganan smiled. “No,” he said. “She needs you.”
It seemed they had been waiting for days, avoiding conversation so they could hear the approach of the Short Ones. But they had heard nothing, and still they waited. Kayugh was on the climbing log, watching out the roof hole. He had decided not to wear his parka for fear it would hinder his movements in the fight, and so had oiled his chest and shoulders to hold in his body heat and make his skin less vulnerable to injury in the fighting.
The wind was cool, and Kayugh knew the nights would soon bring frosts that would rime the grass and darken the scrub willows that grew in the hills.
Shuganan murmured prayers. He spoke to his ancestors, men who were of the Short Ones but who would have found no honor in killing other men. He spoke to Tugix and to spirits in sea and sky.
He asked if they would let evil men kill everyone, if they would never stop the killing, and as he pleaded, Shuganan sometimes felt his spirit expand in anger. Why had the killing continued for so long? Did spirits have no control over choices made by men?
Shuganan had his eyes closed, an amulet in each hand, when Kayugh slid quickly to the floor. “They are coming toward the ulas,” he said. “They look like ghosts in the fog.”
“They are not ghosts,” Shuganan answered. “They are men with no special powers, no great gift but their daring. We will match them.”
Kayugh straightened his shoulders and lifted his head. His fingers sought the whale carving that hung at his neck. Shuganan had carved a whale pendant for each of the men in the ulas. He had done those whales quickly, without much detail, but Kayugh’s whale was the one Shuganan had given him before they came to the Whale Hunters’ village, and the carving was beautiful.
They waited, Kayugh at the bottom of the notched log, Many Whales beside him. Shuganan strained to hear sounds that were not wind or sea. He heard nothing.
Nothing, but then suddenly a torch was thrown through the roof hole, the thing blazing. It burned harmlessly against the packed earth floor.
Kayugh bent to smother the smoking fire with a partially tanned hide, but Shuganan caught the young man’s arm.
“No,” Shuganan said. “They must think it has caught the floor mats. They must think we do not know who threw it.”
He pulled a dividing curtain from the wall and put it in the middle of the dirt floor. Then, using the torch, he lit several of the oil lamps around the room and also the curtain.
“If it smokes too much we will smother it,” Shuganan said. “But first we must scream.” He smiled at Many Whales. “Pretend we are women.”
He pitched his voice into a high scream and Kayugh and Many Whales did the same. And between the screams, he was sure he heard laughter coming from the top of the ulaq.
Kayugh looked over his shoulder at Many Whales, and when Many Whales nodded, both men ran up the climbing logs. They went up, backs toward each other, spears thrust ahead of them.
When Kayugh was halfway up, he saw the two men who waited for them, one man at each side of the roof hole.
The men carried short spears, much more easily maneuvered than the long-shafted spears Kayugh and Many Whales carried. The man whom Many Whales faced had a spear and torch, and from the corner of his eye Kayugh saw the man feint with the torch, then throw it into the ulaq thatching. But in the wet thatching it only sputtered and smoked.
Kayugh thrust his spear at the other man, backing him toward the edge of the ulaq where the slope would make the Short One’s footing precarious. The longer spear was more difficult to control, but Kayugh realized that with the long shaft he could keep the Short One far enough away so he could not use his short spear except by throwing.
The man raised his spear, swinging it toward Kayugh like a c
lub but exposing a wide section of his chest. Kayugh lunged forward and thrust his spear toward the man’s belly, but the Short One sidestepped and the thrust left Kayugh off balance. He stumbled into range of the Short One’s spear and felt the sharp edge of the point cut into his left arm, skin slicing from skin, the sudden heat from his own blood.
The Short One thrust again, jabbing the spear point into Kayugh’s shoulder. Waves of pain pressed against him, forcing him back until he slipped down the side of the ulaq.
Kayugh landed on his feet and raised his spear with his good arm. If the Short One slid down the ulaq to continue the fight, the man would be vulnerable until he gained his footing on the ground.
The Short One cocked his spear as if to throw, then suddenly turned and attacked Many Whales from behind.
Kayugh sucked in his breath, expecting to see a spear thrust into Many Whales’ back. But Many Whales took two quick steps sideways and jumped from the top of the ulaq. He ran to Kayugh’s side and Kayugh saw that blood was dripping from a shallow wound across Many Whales’ cheek.
“How bad?” Many Whales asked, gesturing toward Kayugh’s arm.
“It is not broken,” Kayugh answered but he kept his eyes on the Short Ones at the top of the ulaq, two dim figures in the fog. “They will throw their spears at us,” Kayugh said.
“No,” said Many Whales. “If they do, they will have no weapons but knives. Besides, they can barely see us in this fog.”
Using the edge of his spear, Many Whales cut a strip from his woven apron and bound it over Kayugh’s wound. The pressure sent pain through Kayugh’s body, and a hard knot of nausea settled into his stomach.
“It will stop the bleeding,” Many Whales said.
But Kayugh, fighting down his need to retch, could not answer.
Pain seemed to muffle his hearing and darken his vision. He felt himself sway and from a distance heard Many Whales say, “You have lost too much blood.” Kayugh’s body ached to sink into the rye grass at the side of the ulaq. But then he thought of Amgigh and of Chagak, of Chagak’s son, Samiq.
How could he take the chance that they might be killed or taken back as sons and wife of the Short Ones? Kayugh filled his chest with air and stood straight, willing his body to be strong.
“We must go back up,” he said to Many Whales.
“No,” Many Whales said. “They are in the ulaq.”
“Shuganan …”
Many Whales shook his head. “He is old, but he is a hunter. We cannot help him; they would kill us as we climbed inside. There are others who need our help.”
Yes, there were others. Kayugh could hear the groans, the sounds of weapon against weapon. On each ulaq men were fighting. But where were the men from the ridges? Why had they not joined the fight? Had someone changed the plan?
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden scream. Someone wounded, or killed.
“Shell Digger,” he heard Many Whales mutter. “One of our best hunters.”
Kayugh held his left arm against his body and tried not to think of the pain that had caused that scream. His own wound seemed to drain the strength from his body and the hope from his mind.
What chance did they have against these hunters of men? And this village was not taken in surprise as most villages were. But where were the men who were to attack from the ridge? Were they cowards who would wait until the Short Ones left before returning to the ulas?
The darkness of his pain again pulled at Kayugh and he leaned heavily against the ulaq. Many Whales crouched beside him, and Kayugh, his anger rising at his own weakness and at the men who did not come to fight, asked, “Where are your men? They were to attack from the ridges.”
“They cannot see us, cannot hear us,” Many Whales said. “How will they know the fighting has begun? If we call to them, the Short Ones will be warned of their attack.”
Yes, Kayugh thought, annoyed that his pain seemed to dull his thinking. What would they see in the thickening fog? None of the ulas were on fire. The noise of fighting had been an occasional grunt, the sound of bare feet on sod roofs, only Shell Digger’s scream would have carried to the ridges where the other Whale Hunters waited.
Kayugh clutched Many Whales’ arm. “Scream,” Kayugh said. “We must scream. They will know we are fighting if they hear screams. Any man can scream in battle.”
He raised his voice in a high shriek. Once, twice. Then, as if the Whale Hunters suddenly knew Kayugh’s plan, other screams began to rise from the ulas.
Many Whales laughed. “Yes, they will come,” he said. “Now they will come.”
FORTY-ONE
INSIDE MANY WHALES’ ULAQ, Shuganan waited, following the fighting on the roof by the sifting of dirt from the rafters. Many Whales had arranged a circle of Shuganan’s carvings on the floor. A strong animal for each of the five ulas, he had said. But Shuganan ignored the carvings. He held his amulet in one hand, the shaman’s amulet Chagak had given him in the other, and he prayed. The fighting at the top of the ulaq seemed to stop, and Shuganan held his breath. Then he heard men at the roof hole.
His arms trembled. Kayugh and Many Whales would not come inside unless they were too badly wounded to fight. Shuganan grasped the spear that lay at his side and pushed himself to his feet. He crept into the darkness behind the climbing logs and waited, all the while his mind giving reasons why Kayugh or Many Whales would come inside: a strip of hide to cover a wound, a weapon to replace one that had broken. But when Shuganan saw the feet on the climbing log, toes, soles and tops painted black, he knew.
A bleakness filled his chest, squeezed into his throat and nearly choked him.
Many Whales had lived a long life, but Kayugh … And what of Chagak? Who would take care of her?
The Short Ones jumped down the last notches of the climbing log. One man kicked at the unlit torch lying on the floor.
“It did not burn,” he said. He was large, his head a thatch of black hair smeared with grease and mud.
“Someone was here to put it out,” said the other man, and he pointed to the door openings at the far end of the ulaq.
Shuganan watched as they crept toward the sleeping places. I should have attacked when the men were climbing into the ulaq, Shuganan thought. I could not have killed both, but perhaps I could have taken one. When they find nothing in the sleeping places, they will search the main room, and what chance do I have, an old man facing two young warriors?
But then both men stopped at the circle of carved animals.
“Shuganan,” one of them said.
So Man-who-kills had not lied, Shuganan thought. The Short Ones still believed in the power of his carvings.
And if there is power, he thought, it is mine. He slipped from the shadows behind the climbing logs. He took two quick steps and, ignoring the pain of old joints and muscles, threw his spear.
It entered the big man’s back with a hard, thick sound, like the ripping of roots from wet earth. Then the man fell forward, slowly, and just as slowly his companion looked back at Shuganan.
Shuganan glanced at the climbing logs, but he knew his legs were too old to take him up quickly, and so he drew his knife from the sheath on his arm and said to the warrior still standing, “I am Shuganan.”
“You are dead,” said the warrior.
“Perhaps.”
“You are dead,” said the man again, his voice rising to a peak, “and I will have all your power because I will be the one who kills you.”
“No,” said Shuganan, moving to give himself an advantage, to stay in the shadow and keep the young man in the light. “True power is earned, not taken.”
But the warrior laughed. “Spear against knife,” he said.
“Throw it,” Shuganan said.
Again the man laughed.
Shuganan shifted the knife in his hand, grasped it by the tip and lifted his arm to throw. The warrior lifted his spear.
The tip of the knife left Shuganan’s fingers, then he felt the sudden weight of the spear i
n his side, and at first no pain, only a thrust that knocked him down, but at the same time he saw the young man clutch at his chest, saw the hilt of his knife protruding from the warrior’s breast. And, watching from the floor, Shuganan saw him fall.
Another Short One appeared out of the fog and Kayugh, ignoring the pain in his left shoulder, gripped his spear and stepped forward, but Many Whales pulled him back and met the Short One’s attack. They were fighting between the ulas, where the haze of the fog was thickest.
Kayugh watched, both men thrusting with spear in one hand, knife in the other, Many Whales using the spear shaft to ward off blows. Kayugh strained to see in the fog, to intercept others before they could help the Short One. Then Kayugh realized that Many Whales was maneuvering the Short One toward him, the warrior’s back now only a few steps from where Kayugh crouched.
Kayugh waited until the man was close, then gripped his spear in both hands and took a running step. Many Whales quickly moved back, and for a moment the Short One stopped and stared. Then Kayugh’s spear hit. He rammed it with all his strength, thrusting it up under the man’s rib cage and out the front of his chest.
The man turned, his mouth open, and looked at Kayugh, then his knees doubled and he fell.
Kayugh grasped his spear shaft below the point and pulled, careful that the blood did not make his hand slide into the sharp barbed end.
But then there was a sudden rushing of wind, the clatter of spear against spear. A man fell against Kayugh and knocked him to the ground. Lying on his belly, Kayugh tried to roll away from the man but felt the edge of a knife slice across the top of his hand. A shallow wound but a painful one.
Kayugh flipped to his back. Many Whales came at the man, but the Short One suddenly lurched and fell. A spear was in his back.
Many Whales stepped forward and, bracing his foot against the dead man’s back, withdrew the spear. He studied the spearhead, then laughed and shouted, “Where are you?”